


The Curl of a Sigh

by gabolange



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-18 22:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12397143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabolange/pseuds/gabolange
Summary: The crisis has passed, but Patrick can't sleep.





	The Curl of a Sigh

**Author's Note:**

> Written before 6.03 aired, this is no longer quite canon compliant. Posted to Tumblr 1/30/2017. Usual thanks to pellucid for the read through.

**

The crisis had passed. Through a miracle they hadn’t earned from a god Patrick Turner didn’t believe in, Shelagh’s pregnancy continued. She was watched over tonight by the nurses of Nonnatus House in the safety of his own maternity home—which, too, would live to see another day.

He had been cast aside in the bustle of the hospital, rightly. “You’re her husband, not her doctor,” Sister Julienne had reminded before closing them into the ambulance. 

But waiting for news, this he had done before. In that hospital corridor, he remembered the moment before Marianne’s diagnosis, the faint hope coupled with medical surety that whatever had stolen her strength and her breath could not end well. He remembered Shelagh before she was Shelagh, locked away for her own good, each future he imagined somehow more terrible than the next. And he remembered Timothy, still and quiet as the iron lung breathed for him.

And despite his fears, which he ran through his head in the long minutes before they called his name, this time the news had been good. Good enough. A week or two of rest and if nothing else went wrong, she could go back to work, to life, to being his vibrant wife. Just a scare, the doctor had said, clapping his shoulder as if cheering on Surrey for the cup 

Sister Julienne had insisted Shelagh stay the night at the surgery, just in case. As if Patrick’s care in their flat yards away might not be adequate—that was an uncharitable thought. It was to ensure her rest if he got a late call or Angela cried, and yet now it was he who could not rest.

The children slept, curled uncharacteristically together in Timothy’s bed. Angela wanted to know where Mummy had gone and neither Timothy nor Patrick had been able to console her. His little girl had fallen into a teary sleep against her brother’s shoulder and the lad had refused to relinquish her; in his son’s desperate grip on his sister, Patrick could see the memory of a mother lost and the terror that his family might be once again rent apart. He tucked them both in as if Tim were closer in age to Angela and sat outside the door until he heard Tim’s breathing even out long minutes later.

He climbed to his feet, knees creaking. He would have liked to blame that on a long day, but a darker part of his mind cautioned that he was getting old, awfully old to be bringing an infant home. If Shelagh had been here, she would have soothed his cares, would have shrugged and teased, made some comment about if he was so old then he wouldn’t want to—. So he would have smiled and kissed her, and more. “See?” she would have said after, “you don’t seem old to me.”

But Shelagh wasn’t here, and the thought of climbing into their bed without her suddenly felt impossible. Over the course of their marriage, he had barely slept without her. During those few nights in the Harley Street clinic after her infertility had been confirmed—he almost laughed—he had managed well enough, he supposed. But that felt like a lifetime ago.

In their bedroom, he removed his tie and waistcoat, tossing them carelessly onto the armoire. Shelagh would have raised an eyebrow to chastise him for being untidy, and all he could remember were long, miserable nights with no one to care if he kept the room neat or anything else. 

He ran a hand through his hair. This would not do; tomorrow, he needed to be awake and alert. For his patients, his children, his recuperating wife.

**

He had not been much for sneaking around as a lad. He saw himself in Timothy, studious and earnest, without an eye for anything other than learning and the occasional cricket match. Certainly there had been no illicit girlfriends, no reason to learn a soft step in a busy world.

And yet here he was, hoping not to be seen in the low hum of the night shift at the surgery. It was his building, his practice, and yet he let the door close softly behind him in the hope that no one would hear. Whoever was working would surely march him straight home and then call Sister Julienne to sit in his parlor until morning.

Shelagh had been given a private room, some deference to her status as his wife or, more likely, her status as one of the Nonnatus nurses. He slipped inside.

She was asleep, curled on her side in the narrow single bed they issued to all patients. The rest had not cast away the worry he could still see in the crease between her eyes. She had looked so afraid when the pain had started and her legs had given way, and it had been all he could do to hold on. He recalled his own voice, hoarse with news they had not yet shared, and hers, desperate, calling his name.

He walked to the bed and sat beside her, brushing a strand of hair off her face. He would have been content to sit there and watch her sleep, but she opened her eyes. “Patrick,” she said on a breath.

His fingers stilled on her cheek and she reached up to hold them against her. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, but her grip belied her preference.

“Those are the rules,” he said, stroking his thumb over her cheek before leaning over to kiss her. Their rules, his rules; visitors between three and five in the afternoon only, to ensure proper care.

She smiled against him before shifting onto her back so she could look up at him. “We’ve never been very good at those,” she said and he coughed out a laugh. 

“You’re not,” he said, marveling anew at her strength, her willingness to cast aside a lifetime of choices for the hope of something more. “And I am so grateful for it, Shelagh.”

And then her arms were pulling him down to her in the little bed, giving and receiving the comfort they had both been denied in the cacophony of doctors and nurses and well-meaning friends. She was warm and whole beneath his hands, the curve of her waist and the softness of her breast changed subtly with early pregnancy. Nothing amiss, but her fingers dug into his back as he held her.

“Oh Patrick,” she said, burying her face in the curve of his neck. Her tears were warm and quiet, and he rubbed her back as she cried.

She was usually the one who held the hope for the two of them, her faith and her optimism bound together. But if she was shaken, he could stand in for both of them for the night. “You’re all right,” he said. “It will be all right.”

Shelagh smiled against his collar, sniffing a little bit before pulling away to look at him. “You don’t know that,” she said. “But thank you for saying it.”

He kissed her softly. The bed was barely big enough for her, let alone both of them, but it didn’t matter. She settled with her back pressed to his chest and his fingers threaded through his over the subtle curve of her belly.

“I love you,” he whispered to her hair as she fell asleep.

***


End file.
